


Mine Or: When John Watson Entered Sherlock's Life And Mycroft Did Not Like That One Bit

by LadyGlinda



Series: Jealous, Possessive Mycroft [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Difficult Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft Hates John, Mycroft's Meddling, Possessive Mycroft, Sibling Incest, Smut, at least a bit of it, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 21:44:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21043259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft have continued their difficult relationship for another five years after Sherlock had started working for the Yard. But now another man appears in Sherlock's life and Mycroft is not amused.





	Mine Or: When John Watson Entered Sherlock's Life And Mycroft Did Not Like That One Bit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts), [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/gifts).

### Exasperation And A Pleasurable Encounter

Sherlock almost dropped his phone when it vibrated with a text. Again.

Closing his eyes for a moment and internally counting to ten, he lifted the hand that was holding it, and with narrowed eyes he finally looked at the display, and what he saw didn't exactly surprise him.

_Are you finished? M_

Sherlock took a deep breath and fired off a reply.

_I am actually not. I'm observing someone. Need to focus. Later, SH_

He didn’t bother putting the phone away and about ten seconds later, he received another message, which was no surprise whatsoever.

_Ah, the Darlington case? Tell the lawyer to look in Mr Plummer's house. Home office, probably top drawer. Ready now? M_

Sherlock was very close to throwing his phone against the wall. How was that even possible? His brother wasn't here, how could he know this?

He sighed. He knew what Mycroft would say to this: _'I know it because I'm the smart one.' _Sherlock could _see_ him smile...

And Sherlock had no doubt whatsoever that he was right. Mycroft was wrong often enough about a lot of things, especially concerning people who were allegedly, and in fact not at all, interested in him, Sherlock, but he was never wrong about such matters.

He typed with way more force than necessary and therefore had to correct his text no less than three times, which pissed him off even more.

_Thanks for doing my job. I'm going home now. SH_

_Always so resentful, little brother. If you go home, I will drop by in half an hour. My tub is bigger and my fridge is stuffed with everything you like though, in case you want to give eating another try. You are sure you are not interested? M_

Why did he even bother?

_Coming. 30 min. SH_

_Excellent. M_

Yes. Excellent…

*****

“How was your day, little brother?” Mycroft asked him without any noticeable irony while Sherlock was hanging up his coat thirty-four minutes later.

“Seriously, Mycroft?” He had spent the day with solving a case, running through London, searching for clues, and his brother had produced the solution without so much as leaving his chair… But then, he had certainly followed each and every one of Sherlock's steps throughout the day, albeit not literally. The cameras of London were his playthings and Sherlock was sure he didn’t make one step out of his flat that Mycroft wasn’t informed of. It was annoying, it was insulting but it was also somehow… sweet? But then… “You made my work of a full day totally worthless!” It was a bit exaggerated though. Of course he hadn’t told his client that Mycroft had actually found the solution but had claimed to have thought of it himself, and the man had been over the moon and showered him with compliments and a cheque when the item in question had been exactly where Mycroft had suggested.

“Oh, apologies; I simply meant to help!” Mycroft didn't sound sorry at all. There was even an amused sparkle in his _(beautiful)_ eyes and some too-innocent silk in his _(highly melodic)_ voice.

Sherlock snorted and winced when Mycroft moved as quickly as a snake, curling his arms around his waist and kissing his cheek.

“Don’t be upset, brother mine. I was just full of longing for you.”

Damn sentiment that never failed to make his heart miss a beat! Even more so because it might be shameless manipulation of Mycroft to say it but he definitely really felt it. “Don’t do it again,” he mumbled against his brother’s neck and couldn’t suppress a grin when Mycroft patted his back and said, “Never, I promise.”

This promise would probably last a day or two. Perhaps not even that… But then Mycroft kissed him on the neck a few times in quick succession and Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to be that pissed off anymore...

“Care for dinner now?” Mycroft asked him after nibbling at this darn treacherous spot right behind his ear for two minutes.

Sherlock forced himself to wake up from his aroused daze. “I never…”

“…have dinner, I know. But I seem to remember that you do like salmon sandwiches and I happen to have some stored in my fridge.”

Damn… He did know him way too well… “Maybe one… But I need…”

“… a shower, yes. Why don't you take a bath instead and I'll join you in a few minutes, bringing your dinner along?”

It was pointless to argue with him. And a hot bath and some certainly delicious sandwiches did sound good. He was feeling sweaty and exhausted and he had not had lunch. “Fine.”

Mycroft beamed at him, not even looking smug or displaying this hateful _'I have won'_ expression that sometimes made Sherlock furious to no end. In fact he looked just happy that Sherlock was here and would stay for a while even without having sex at once.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him nevertheless but Mycroft just chuckled and pecked his lips and then they parted ways so Sherlock could head to the luxurious bathroom and Mycroft could go to the large and hardly used kitchen to fetch his dinner.

*****

“Look at you… Covered in bubbles.” Mycroft, a plate in his hand, sat down on the edge of the tub, looking down on Sherlock with an expression of fondness and, yes, deep affection.

Why couldn’t it be like this between them all the time? Yeah… Because Sherlock didn’t let it be. He just couldn’t. Too much history between them. Too many rows and failed expectations and words that he couldn’t forget. And this was true for both his completely fucked up relationship with his parents and the difficult and unconventional one with his brother.

He was the first to admit that he had been a challenging child, an awfully rebellious teenager and an unbearable young adult, and his family had reacted to him accordingly. He had gone through dark times, and in his black mood he had loathed the overprotectiveness of the brother who had thought he was so much smarter and more responsible than him and God, the latter was certainly true, and harsh words and resentments had ruled between them before Sherlock had been forced into rehab by a Mycroft at the end of his tether when he had been nineteen and come out sober and furious and had ended up in Mycroft's bed. Nothing had ever been easy between them, not once in their lives, but he knew Mycroft loved him like mad, quite literally, and yes, he loved him, too, in a less frantic but no less genuine way, but too much had happened between them to just forget it and be lovers like other people were, even the fact that their relationship was forbidden by law and therefore a secret aside.

Lestrade, with whom he had been working now for almost five years, knew about it of course, some people from his past might suspect it as Mycroft had always been rather careless about keeping their secret when his possessive jealousy got the better of him. But Sherlock knew it didn’t matter. Nobody would even dare use it against Mycroft and therefore him; at least nobody who wanted to see the sun rise another time. He was still not sure what Mycroft exactly did in Whitehall and the Diogenes; he might even rule the world from there, but there was no doubt his brother had immense power and no scruples whatsoever, and everybody who dared try to threaten him would be doomed to an untimely death. His brother was not only powerful and protective of him to no end – he was dangerous and ice cold to everybody who wasn't Sherlock. And as much as Sherlock resented him for the past, especially this horrible rehab (despite knowing he'd had it coming) and fought his overbearing and intrusive behaviour when it got too much – it was exactly this dark and thrilling personality that kept him at his brother's side, even more than his baby blue eyes, his capable hands or his large cock. He sometimes needed to be away from him for days or even weeks but in the end he would always come back. Mycroft had so many sides; he could be close to brutal, cynical but also right-out cuddly and sweet, and in the splendid mood he was in now, spending time with him was far from being a chore.

“I should get you a rubber duck,” he said now, his fingers playing with Sherlock's damp curls.

“Yeah, one that looks like the Queen!”

Mycroft laughed. “That would be lovely indeed. Here.” He offered Sherlock a sandwich and Sherlock humoured him and bit a piece off of it, and it was as delicious as he had expected.

“That's a good boy,” crooned Mycroft and continued to feed him until Sherlock had eaten up two sandwiches. “Shall I wash your hair now?”

“Please. You could join me,” Sherlock suggested, and Mycroft smiled in a way his minions and colleagues probably didn’t get to see, ever.

“I could but I had a shower before you came. Or do I smell as if I needed a bath?” He raised his eyebrows.

In fact he smelled like a flower garden, was clean shaven and edible. “No. Just thought it would be fun.”

“We will have fun as soon as you're in my bed,” promised Mycroft. “Let's get you ready.” His voice was low and full of promises now and Sherlock felt decidedly aroused. It was in moments like this one that he considered giving up any opposition, succumbing to accepting he was his brother's property and moving in with him like Mycroft had suggested again and again over the years. But these considerations never lasted. He wanted to be his own man, do what he wanted – more or less – and be with his brother when he was in the mood for it (or when it was simply time for it or Mycroft kept nagging, okay). It had worked for so many years now; trying to change this arrangement would in all probability lead to nothing good. But he knew he would enjoy himself tonight.

“Shampoo is coming,” announced Mycroft, and Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed against the back of the tub, leaving himself to his brother's deft fingers.

*****

“Mmm… tasty, delicious little brother,” Mycroft mumbled while nuzzling his face against Sherlock's neck, deeply inhaling his scent, probingly licking at his freshly scrubbed skin.

Sherlock knew he smelt like expensive body wash and apple shampoo and Westwood deodorant and Mycroft’s shaving foam he had cheekily used after his bath. “Right, in opposite to the dirty, filthy little brother you usually take to bed,” he retorted dryly, and he grinned when Mycroft chuckled against his ear.

These moments were so precious – and so very rare. Whose fault was this? Mycroft would certainly say Sherlock's. But it would have been so much easier to be like this with his brother if he hadn’t been so goddamn overbearing all the time…

This was not a subject he would like to discuss now as he knew he would never win this discussion and it would only spoil the mood. A look into Mycroft's pale-blue eyes told him that his brother had deduced his thoughts anyway, but Mycroft just winked and tousled his hair and then he kissed him so fiercely that Sherlock soon craved for breath, clinging to the older man’s neck and returning the kiss with equal passion. His cock was as hard as a stone and leaking, and Mycroft's hand was sloppily moving up and down on it.

Mycroft chuckled when Sherlock tweaked his big right nipple. Mycroft's body was a wonder for him; a wonder that had never ceased to fascinate him – all the fur and the nubs that got so hard under his ministrations and that large cock that was a wonder in itself and Mycroft's pert arse and huge balls and endless legs and rather soft but almost flat belly. Sherlock had never seen a living man naked apart from his brother and he was very sure he never would. Even if he felt so inclined – Mycroft would never let him. And it was just fine, really. People were stupid. They were annoying. They were no match for him.

Mycroft was. He was handsome and super-smart and arrogant and fascinating in his obsession with him and dangerous to anyone who might try to seduce Sherlock, and Sherlock hated that and he loved it and it was all pretty much fucked up…

But right now… it was just lovely. His hands were rubbing over Mycroft's hairy chest frantically now and his brother let him indulge himself with a pleased smile, still lazily stroking Sherlock's cock but not touching his own plump appendage.

Sherlock loved the feeling of the wiry hair under his fingers and the hotness of those swollen nipples, and he pushed Mycroft onto the mattress to be able to close his lips around one of them, and Mycroft let him, his large hand stroking Sherlock's back now, up and down, as if he was petting a dog. Sherlock's busy lips moved southwards now but Mycroft obviously wasn't craving for receiving a blowjob tonight – in fact he was keen on giving one.

Sherlock let himself be manhandled onto his back without any resistance but he unwillingly licked his lips that were missing out on closing around Mycroft's tasty member.

His brother noticed it and smiled and offered him his fore- and middle finger instead and Sherlock obediently sucked at them while Mycroft kissed his way down his body now, paying special attention to his long neck and his collar bones before gently biting into Sherlock's much smaller nipples now before licking over his prominent abs and moving down to his cock, which was far from being small but a modest handful compared to Mycroft's giant tool.

Sherlock didn’t mind and he closed his eyes in pleasure while he was being devoured. Probably Mycroft would let him top him when the sun started going around the earth (or was it even?) but he didn’t mind that either. He knew many gay couples switched positions regularly and bottoming didn’t mean submission but for Mycroft it obviously did and Sherlock loved being topped so what. If his brother thought bottoming was a weakness he couldn’t afford, well, then _he _was missing out. Perhaps though Mycroft had tried it when he had been a lot younger and hadn't liked it. Who knew? He had left their parents' house with eighteen and had hardly come back from then on and he had never spoken about his private life with them or with him. Perhaps there had been someone at uni or later, when he had been climbing the ladder of power, but Sherlock doubted very much that it had been serious and that Mycroft had really loved these phantom men. He had been obsessed with Sherlock even then and that they had been seeing each other very rarely had probably only fuelled this obsession. In the end a row had led to getting together and it had been some serious clashing Sherlock would always remember.

Now Mycroft was swallowing his cock like a man about to starve. He was a perfect deep-throater and Sherlock was feeling as if he was ripped apart by his arousal, and he bit into Mycroft's fingers more than once but his brother didn’t even flinch. Whenever he was close to climaxing though, Mycroft pinched his thigh or just stopped sucking so Sherlock was almost constantly on the edge but not allowed to tumble over it. And when Mycroft started fingering his hole, he knew he would not come while being sucked.

Somehow Mycroft managed to open the bottle with strongly smelling lubricant and wet his fingers so he could work some of the sticky fluid into Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock knew he was in for some pleasurable pain and he finally moved his head so Mycroft's fingers slid out of his mouth. “Fuck me now, Mycroft, finish me or I'll go mad!”

“You already are,” Mycroft answered nonchalantly but he repositioned, pushing Sherlock's thighs up to his chest so he could line his cock up and push in just to keep still a second later.

The pain was sharp but bearable and Sherlock was used to it. He slung his legs around Mycroft's hips, urging him to get on with it. His hands resting on the mattress to both sides of Sherlock's head, his brother did him the favour, and soon the bed was moving under his frantic pummelling.

He really was a force of nature when he let go and Sherlock could do nothing but holding onto him and enjoy the mixture of pain and stimulation and succumb to his brother's sexual dominance.

Way too soon Mycroft cried out and flooded his passage, and the feeling of the hot seed shooting into him was too much for Sherlock, who came in almost painful spurts between their entangled bodies.

He collapsed onto the bed while Mycroft refrained from joining him and instead took care of cleaning Sherlock up before pulling him into a crushing embrace.

“Brother _mine,_” he mumbled, his breath hot against Sherlock's forehead. “_Mine_ forever.”

It wasn't quite as romantic as _'I love you'_ but that was what he meant – in his own unique, twisted, possessive way…

### Sherlock On The Run

Sherlock was fuming. If it hadn’t been so freezing cold, he would have probably caught fire…

He pulled the new coat Mycroft had given him for his birthday closer around him. It was a wonder it was still existing… Would he freeze to death out here? Well, that would suit Mycroft and his pissed-off, all-smug attitude.

‘_How could you be so careless?’ ‘I thought you were smart!’ ‘Aren’t you a tad too old to play “little boy who loves explosions”?’ ‘And why could you not do it somewhere else but your bloody rathole of a flat?’ _

And then he had sighed and rolled his eyes and told Sherlock to go to his house and occupy a guest room. As if…

Only that he had nowhere else to go… He had no money for a hotel. His trust wasn’t paying him anything anymore. Punishment for six months… Because his urine test had been positive… Fucking control freaks meddling in his life! It was his choice if he smoked a joint or not, and what did it even matter! He could still do his work even if he was a bit high. Right, Lestrade didn't let him on a crime scene if his pupils were blown. And yes, he had stupidly blown up his flat. And now he had nowhere to go because he couldn’t afford paying for a room and he couldn’t go to Lestrade or anyone he knew either because Mycroft would know about it and kill the person in question and whom did he know well enough to live with them anyway?! And he couldn’t go to his brother’s house because Mycroft would never let him go again and he would lord his stupidity over him and tell him off for taking drugs again, God, the disappointment in his face when he had confronted Sherlock with his knowledge about it! So much for doctors having to keep silent about their patients…

Sherlock hated everything and everybody and cursed his brother and the doctor and the rules and himself…

It didn’t help though. He was hiding right now in an area without cameras but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed to earn some money and get a new flat. He would never get such a cheap one again though. And he couldn’t blame it on anybody but himself…

He slowly got up on legs that refused to carry him at first, cold and stiff as they were. But then he was on his way, not really knowing where it would lead him but he knew he had to stay strong and believe in himself and then it would be all good. Or not and who cared?

But then he had an idea. Yeah. That could work, at least for tonight. It meant that Mycroft would come catch him maybe but he doubted it. For a change Mycroft was almost as cross with him as vice versa and even though that wasn’t exactly a nice situation, he would not come and beg for his mercy. He could look after himself!

*****

Mycroft glanced at his phone, blanking the PM out for now. The GPS device in Sherlock's coat collar told him that his brother was moving again. Good. He had already feared he had to go to this filthy quarter and get his sorry arse into the car. What would he do now, the stubborn, incorrigible boy? Certainly not come to him… There were times when Sherlock was adorable and sexy and a pleasure to be around; Mycroft thought at this particular evening hardly two weeks ago with deep longing. Sherlock had been so pliant and let him wash his hair and spoil him and then… Then he had turned into a menace again, had taken drugs, which had had dire consequences for his appanage, and above all managed to cause an explosion that had almost literally catapulted him on the street last night, and then he had refused to move in with him, which had been the only reasonable solution, even their sexual relationship aside. Instead he had walked off, having no idea that Mycroft always knew where he was, cameras or not, as long as he was wearing his coat, and he never went anywhere without it (and when it would be too warm for it in summer, Mycroft could still track his phone…).

The past weeks had truly sucked. Problems with Venezuela and France, scandals that had to be hastily buried, and then a Member of Parliament had been blackmailed for his unlucky preference for underage girls and it had been quite the mess to deal with this ugly affair. He hadn’t been in the mood for Sherlock's childish shenanigans and now his brother was pissed off at him and refused to even talk to him; his texts remained unanswered, and Mycroft did not like to be ignored.

But Sherlock would come back. He always did. And if not, Mycroft would hunt him down and carry him to his house like a caveman handled his prey…

“Are you listening, Holmes?” the PM nagged.

Mycroft sighed. “I am and you’re not making any sense.”

The old man gasped and glowered at him but Mycroft stared at him with his cold eyes narrowed until he shrugged and cleared his throat. “What shall I do then?” he asked, sounding a tad meek.

“I will tell you, and you will listen. Sir.”

The PM nodded and Mycroft tried to focus on this stupid conversation. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t do anything equally stupid in the meantime.

When he looked onto his phone again, Sherlock had arrived in St. Bart’s hospital. Ah. Little brother wanted to sleep in one of the empty chambers. Clever. Fine. At least he was safe there. Perhaps he would even do some silly experiments there the next day; Mycroft knew he loved to do that. And this new little pathologist that was so fond of him provided him with everything he needed. Mycroft would have taken her out if he hadn’t known Sherlock only used her for his purposes and if she hadn’t lacked the right equipment to satisfy his sexual needs. Because no matter how rebellious and independent Sherlock liked to appear – he was a true slut for Mycroft's large cock. If nothing else this would bring him back to him…

And the only other person he spoke to there was the useful but unattractive Mike Stamford, who, apart from being sparsely hung, was definitely not interested in Sherlock's assets so Mycroft had not even had to have ‘the talk’ with him. Mycroft knew it because he knew what the man was really interested in, and even Sherlock would be shocked. Considering the man’s looks, his choices were reasonable though. Dead people couldn’t say no...

“What’s so funny, Holmes?”

God, was the PM still there? “Our conversation is finished. Sir.”

The man hurried to leave his office and Mycroft left his brother to his hopefully comfortable night in the hospital and went home. Probably Sherlock thought he would come and get him now but he would surprise him and not do anything at least for another day.

### The New Flatmate

Mycroft stared at his phone and it was a miracle it didn't go up in flames. Sherlock kept ignoring his texts and refused his calls. What was he doing now – looking for the suitcase of this stupid victim? While he was planning to move into his brand new flat with his brand new flatmate?

So much had happened since Sherlock had taken shelter in the hospital. In the morning he had been outside, smoking – a habit that Mycroft despised, but he usually let it slide so Sherlock wouldn’t take to chasing worse drugs even though his kisses tasted like an ashtray, well that was something he didn't have to bother about right now… An old woman had walked by and greeted him – there were cameras all around the hospital. She had apparently visited someone in there and Sherlock knew her from an old case. Mycroft had refreshed his memory about her asap and found out what they had been talking about so vividly – she owned a house in Central London and her tenant had just moved out.

He hadn’t been that pleased that Sherlock was about to find a new flat so quickly as he had still hoped Sherlock would finally accept his offer to live in his house but the old woman was harmless after all, even if her late husband had not been, and Sherlock would live close enough to his offices then. But how would his brother be able to afford to pay the rent for a flat in such an area?

Well, this question had been answered soon enough… He had gone inside and a camera in the inside of the hospital had caught him talking to Mike Stamford. Which was not a problem in itself but later that day said Mike Stamford had introduced someone to Sherlock – an ex-captain and army doctor, and how ever this was possible, they had obviously decided to move into the flat Martha Hudson was offering together. Mycroft had cursed himself numerous times that he had not placed a bug in Sherlock's phone. He would definitely take care of that as soon as he had a chance. Of course he should have done it long ago but he had had the suspicion that if Sherlock found out about it, he would never want to spend quality time with him again… But desperate times called for desperate measures.

In fact he hadn’t had a chance to interfere with anything Sherlock had done in these past two days. The sodding Lord with the little-girl-problem had committed suicide (which seemed to be a theme lately, considering Sherlock's current case) and he had not done it discreetly at home but right _in_ the House of Parliament, and it had caused some serious hassle and of course Mycroft had had to be the one to take care of it…

And now his brother would be living with another man. He wasn’t openly gay which was some relief, and he didn't exactly seem to be Sherlock's type. John Watson was too short for Sherlock, in every way. But he had some charisma and attitude and he admired Sherlock; it was impossible to miss. Mycroft wouldn’t have it. He would have a nice little talk with this doctor and if he sensed any kind of romantic interest for his brother in him, little doc would not survive this talk.

Oh, he had done his homework. John Watson was a loose cannon, just like his brother. PTSD, anger issues. Trusted nobody. Nobody but Sherlock, obviously… Mycroft didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. And still… Sherlock seemed inexplicably fond of this man. If he took him out just so, his brother would be really mad at him. He knew he had sometimes been a bit too… enthusiastic while interrogating Sherlock's… whatever they were for him in the past. Sherlock had told him he wouldn’t have that anymore. Well, it was not Sherlock's decision whom he would talk to. Sherlock was his, if he liked that right now or not. But considering their rather difficult relationship, especially in this moment, he had to be a bit more… subtle. It was hard. But it wasn’t as if he was totally incapable of it… After all he had contact with the Queen.

His heart rate increased when he heard the noise of an incoming text. Look! Little brother was ready to talk to him again...

*****

_Leave him alone, Mycroft. He is not gay. No need to pull off the Lestrade-number. SH_

_Oh, you are gracing me with a text. I am honoured. M_

_You hear me? We will just move into this flat. He has his own bedroom. SH_

_How nice to know. M_

_Listen… I know I have been ignoring you but… I was royally pissed off! SH_

_ **You** _ _? You mean _ _ **you** _ _, who got high against all agreements and managed to blow up your flat and then refused to accept my hospitality, _ _ **you** _ _ are pissed off? _ _ **At me** _ _? Give me a break. M_

_We both know it was not just hospitality. You want to control me. And you know I don’t appreciate that very much. But we can still meet. SH_

_How generous. And we both know you are in dire need of control because you do not have any. M_

_Fuck you, Mycroft. Leave him alone. I will come over tomorrow, when this case is solved. If you keep your hands off John. SH_

Sherlock stared at the display, regretting his last text already. Not for promising to see his brother under the condition that he would still have a flatmate then but for the first part. But damn – his brother was so annoying sometimes.

He had known the risk of asking John Watson to move in with him. But John… He had been so impressed by his deductions instead of being annoyed like all the others; Sherlock had sensed his admiration during their first meeting. John was brave and adventurous, too, not intimidated by his weird kind of intelligence but delighted. He would be so useful for his cases, being a doctor, even one who was used to work under dire conditions. And Sherlock… liked him. Not as a man and he would never tell Mycroft (but sadly, he didn't really have to tell his brother anything for him to find out…). But there was something he had never felt before for someone, apart from Niles perhaps, his old classmate – companionship, maybe. He just knew they would make a great team. If Mycroft let him live long enough… He had to placate his brother and he had fucked that up now. But there was no time for Mycroft's sensitivities now. He had to solve this case! He forced himself to focus on it, knowing his brother would have his talk with John, if he liked that or not. Mycroft had not done anything like that since he had started working with Lestrade, and he was still surprised Mike Stamford had not been pestered by him, but John would certainly not get away without it.

And Mycroft did not reply to his last text, not even to the assurance of wanting to meet him. That was worrying but he knew if Mycroft wanted to interrogate John like he had done it with Lestrade and so many other men before him, he would do it anyway. Mycroft would not spare John but Sherlock hoped that his last text would at least keep him from spearing him...

With a sigh he turned to the suitcase of the pink lady.

*****

“Have a seat, John.” Mycroft had forced a more or less friendly smile onto his face even though he hated this unattractive short man at first sight.

“You know, I’ve got a phone,” John said while limping into his direction.

Mycroft refrained just so from rolling his eyes. He should take said phone and shove it up the little ex-soldiers bum. Then they would know for sure if he liked to have something up there and perhaps it would even cure him from his psychosomatic limping. But then – Sherlock wasn’t exactly a top. Well, at least he had never topped him. Would he want to do that? Mycroft had never given this any thinking and Sherlock had never mentioned it. Perhaps that would lure him into John Watson’s arms then!

The doctor completely missed his narrowed eyes and blathered on. “I mean, very clever and all that, but, ahem... you could just phone me. On my _phone_.”

_God, just __**shut up**_. “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” It was bullshit of course. Sherlock knew what John had coming and he had to have known his attempt at keeping him from doing it had been fruitless. But he had not warned him. Or told him anything about him. His new best friend had no idea who he was.

With his last bit of self-control, he brought out in a fairly bright tone, going on playing the fairy uncle, “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

The ungrateful little bastard didn't even think of it. “I don’t wanna sit down.”

Mycroft watched him with reluctant respect and even more – so far conceived – hatred. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

_Cheeky little bugger. What if I ripped you apart now? Would you be afraid then? _Obviously yes. But he also knew what Sherlock would be. And damn… He was missing him… He forced himself to not explode and fake a laugh. “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” John didn't seem to think that. He thought he was so brave and stern and fierce. Ridiculous… “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” His tone had changed now. He had enough of this silly game.

John looked a bit pensive. “I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him… yesterday.”

“And since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” _Or might we expect a funeral? Yours, to be precise?_

“Who _are_ you?”

That question had come rather late. “I’m his brother. Mycroft.”

John snorted. “Mycroft? Damn, your parents were really creative. Do people call you Mike then?”

Mycroft bared his teeth. “Not if they like to keep their heads attached to their bodies.”

John stared at him, looking irritated for the first time, but before he could say anything, his phone signalised a text, undoubtedly from Sherlock, and he hurried to pull his phone out and look at it and seemed to forget that Mycroft was even there just because of staring at his new best friend’s message.

Mycroft’s pulse sped up. “I hope I’m not distracting you.” God, he hated this troll…

“Not distracting me at all.” John sounded a tad distracted...

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” It wasn’t really a question. John was hooked. By Sherlock's intellect? Or his pert arse?

“I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It _could_ be.” Mycroft let the ice in his blue eyes shine through now but the doctor was too stupid or self-centred to see it.

“It _really_ couldn’t.” John was clearly eager to leave now. To see Sherlock. To have an adventure with him.

“If you put my brother into any danger, Mr Reckless Soldier, I will find you.” Any hint of friendliness, let alone harmlessness, had disappeared from Mycroft's tone.

“What do you know about me?” John shot back, his hands ball into fists. He wasn’t intimidated. Still not. But he had finally realised that Mycroft was not what he had thought he was – a harmless, concerned big brother.

“That you had some serious problems in Afghanistan.”

John paled. “Nobody knows about that! The files are secure!”

Mycroft laughed and the shorter man’s cheeks reddened with anger. “If you know what’s good for you, forget that you ever met my brother,” Mycroft turned serious again. It was worth a try. He would have preferred strangling the life out of this miserable little man. But he had not forgotten Sherlock's last text. His brother would not drop him if he hurt this man though. Or would he? He had never faced such a threat to their relationship before even though he had feared it plenty of times, and it had always been unjustified. How had this plain-looking nobody wormed his way into his cold brother’s heart so quickly? Sherlock despised people every bit as much as he did. They were both masters of manipulation and faked friendliness if they chose to be.

But this was more. Sherlock really cared about this dwarf with the bad haircut and Mycroft would have loved to kill him just for that. But he didn't dare. He didn't want to lose Sherlock. Of course he could have forced Sherlock to continue having sex with him after throwing the doctor into the bin. But he had never done that and it was the line he never wanted to cross. He might dominate Sherlock sexually and sometimes their play was very rough but he had never taken anything Sherlock hadn’t wanted to give, and he wouldn’t start with it now and especially not because of this worthless piece of rubbish in front of him.

John tightened his jaws, his big blue eyes sparkling with wrath, and Mycroft knew he had wasted his breath even before John hissed, “Forget it. We are friends and that’s not your business. You can shove your threats up your posh arse along with your stupid umbrella. And if it, for whatever reason, makes you happy – I’m not gay and I’m not going to try and seduce your brother.”

“Good. It would be the last thing you do.”

John’s eyes narrowed and Mycroft knew he had given his cards away, just like he had done with Lestrade. Sherlock would be so not-amused. “Now go to your new master,” he said with a dirty grin before John could react to his too-open statement.

John snorted and turned to leave. Anthea would bring him back into the city. And Mycroft wished he would never have to see this annoying little man again but he assumed he wouldn’t be so lucky.

He knew Sherlock would accuse him of being jealous, and as far as Mycroft knew, his undeniable jealousy had always been unjustified so Sherlock would have a point.

But it was not just that. He had a bad feeling about this man. Mycroft wasn’t a man who lived on emotions, God no, except if it came to his brother; he was certainly driven by all kinds of sentiments when Sherlock was concerned. But otherwise he was a man of cold logic, sharp deductions and facts.

And still he’d just had some sort of premonition, based on the facts he had read about the doctor though. If Sherlock allowed this man further into his life, something bad would happen to him. And Mycroft knew his brother well enough to be aware that he wouldn’t be able to talk him out of it. It was a painful thought.

But he would be watching. He would be observing them. And if John made a false step, he would be all over him.

After all Mycroft was crazy for his brother, desired him, needed him; he was his lover, his protector, and he also worried about him. Constantly.

His phone vibrated when he was about to leave. He looked at the number and sighed. Nobody had to tell him that there was another catastrophe around the late lord he had to deal with – his widow threatening to expose who else was involved in his little hobby… He had already seen it coming but not been able to get rid of her so far. He would have to take care of it now.

### After The Pill-Game

“So, the shooter. No sign?” It had been close. So close. And Sherlock was the first one to admit that it would have been his own bloody fault. He had got carried away by the stupid game with the pills. And he wasn’t as sure as he would like to be that he had chosen the right one…

Lestrade pulled a face. “Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but – got nothing to go on.”

Of course he had to think so. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He gave the DI a razor sharp deduction about the man who had saved his arse in there – and then he was close to hitting his own head when he saw John Watson standing next to a police car. Sure… God… _John_ had killed this man for him. He hadn’t even known him for a day and had already cold-bloodedly saved his life. Thank God Lestrade was none of the brightest. “Actually, do you know what? Ignore me.”

Lestrade was nonplussed. “Sorry?”

He retreated from the situation to join John, who was all-too-innocently still standing around as if he was not involved in the least. He had a good poker face, his new friend.

The adrenaline had still not fully left his body and his thinking was obviously not what it used to be. But all at once he wondered why Mycroft was not here yet. Had he given up on him? Did he not care anymore what happened to him? Because there were cameras around here. Not inside the building but he could see them here. It gave him a sting.

Shaking the nasty feeling off, he walked over to John.

His flatmate looked a bit nervous. “Um, Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful.”

Sherlock watched him for a long moment. “Good shot.”

“Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.”

“Well, _you’d_ know.” Nobody had ever done something like this for him. And he knew – if Mycroft did still care about him, he would be fuming about this. Would he be grateful that John had saved him (from his own recklessness but still)? Or would the anger and the jealousy win?

“Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers,” he told John. “I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?” he asked then when John looked around as if he feared being overheard even though nobody was nearly close enough to them.

“Yes, of course I’m all right.”

“Well, you have just killed a man.” _It doesn’t affect him. He is really as reckless as I am._

They even joked a bit about the dead and awful cabbie before turning to leave. It was very late now and Sherlock was freezing. He needed to get into his new flat and take a hot shower, and tomorrow he would call his brother or visit him in Whitehall. Now that the excitements of this case and this night were over, he was feeling in need of being in touch with him again, quite literally, but it was too late now to go to him. And it would appear too needy if he showed up at his doorstep at one in the morning…

It turned out he shouldn’t have bothered with these thoughts.

“Ah, look. Your brother.” John stated it in a voice that was a mixture of interest, curiosity – and suspicion.

He had told Sherlock about his meeting with his brother and Sherlock had noticed at once that Mycroft had given too much of his feelings away – again. One should have thought someone who occupied such a position (whatever it exactly was) would have learned to keep his sentiments in check towards a not-too-intelligent (compared to them) man he had never met before. But like with Lestrade, the jealousy had made him careless, albeit not quite as much. John clearly suspected that Mycroft had more interest in him than a ‘normal’ big brother used to have but he wasn’t as sure as Lestrade had been. Sherlock had not commented on it at all of course; he had just remarked that it was Mycroft's habit to check out the new people in his life and changed the topic back to the case at hand.

But then… Sherlock would live with John. Even if his flatmate and his brother never crossed paths again, which was highly unlikely, he would be there when Sherlock got back from visiting and getting fucked by his brother, and he would figure it out in no time. Sherlock cursed himself for not having thought about this before. John would have to accept it or they could forget about their living arrangements right away, he having saved Sherlock or not, because he was not Mycroft's successor – he was a friend and a colleague, which was amazing in itself as Sherlock had never expected to have either, but Mycroft was… Mycroft. With all the flaws and treats and consequences.

And Mycroft looked deeply relieved but also shaken when he came over to them. Sherlock went to meet him halfway. His assistant, the inevitable phone in her elegant hand, was standing next to the car that had brought him here so probably he had still been in the office at this late time. Something had happened. Something that had kept him from hurrying to Sherlock's side earlier and take the threat out himself. It would irk him.

Mycroft looked weary and exhausted, the skin under his eyes was swollen. “Sherlock. Are you all right?”

The care and worry in his voice made Sherlock's heart clench. He could hear John joining him and he was close to telling him to leave them alone but he focused on his brother instead. “I am. John...” He didn't go on. After all they didn't want John to go to prison for shooting an unarmed man – unarmed but for a deadly pill he could have never forced Sherlock to take. Sherlock didn't exactly mourn his death, he had certainly deserved to die for killing those other people, but he knew shooting him had not really been self-defence on behalf of Sherlock, who could have basically just walked away. But it was important to stress John’s role if Mycroft had not figured it out himself. Maybe it would be good for John’s health.

The pale-blue eyes darted to the doctor, who was still standing a tad behind Sherlock. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement. He wouldn’t thank John with words, and not only to not give anything away. The thought crossed Sherlock's mind that he would have probably gladly done that to get rid of John if it hadn’t been so unlikely that John would have really had to go to prison for taking out a killer, if Sherlock had been in real danger or not. It was hard to say. Sometimes Mycroft was unreadable, even for him. But it was rather safe to say that basically nothing about his brother’s depths could still surprise him.

“I’m glad you were not injured,” the older man said almost meekly now, and Sherlock died for reaching out and touching him.

He couldn’t of course, not in public (even though nobody paid attention to them and Anthea very certainly knew about their relationship without having ever been told about it; Sherlock knew she was very smart and sharp and hardly missed anything). But he smiled at his brother. “Will you go back to the office now?” Mycroft sometimes spent the night there or in the Diogenes.

Mycroft shook his head. “No. I’m going home. So will you, I suppose.” His look darted over to John, and all at once Sherlock saw sadness and resignation in his eyes. He wouldn’t do anything to John. He thought Sherlock had made his choice and he wouldn’t even fight? At least not tonight.

Without even thinking, Sherlock turned to John. “Do you mind going home alone? You’ve got your keys, right?”

John looked surprised and he glanced at Mycroft, then at him, and Sherlock could see that he understood when his big eyes widened for a second. What he would do or say now would seal his fate.

The doctor cleared his throat, a mannerism that Sherlock had already learned to not like all that much, and shook his head. “No, it's fine. Like I said. It’s all fine.” And then, to prove a point or out of real hope, he made a step forward and nodded at Anthea, who still had her phone in her hand but wasn’t looking at it, being too fascinated by the scene in front of her. “Hello,” John said.

She gave him a half-smile. “Hello.”

“Yes, we… We met earlier on this evening.”

He had not mentioned that to Sherlock but obviously she had ‘asked’ him to go to his meeting with Mycroft…

“Oh!” the attractive PA made, clearly suggesting she couldn’t remember him.

Sherlock could hardly suppress a grin. Anthea never forgot a face, especially not if she had seen this person only hours earlier. If she had been so forgetful, she would have been useless for his brother and Mycroft had no use for useless people...

“Okay, good night,” John grumbled, having totally missed that he was being fooled, and walked off.

Sherlock winked at Anthea, who grinned and winked back, before saying good night to John as well.

“Good night, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft mumbled, too, but his eyes were fixed on Sherlock. Then he turned to Anthea. “We can give you a lift home first.”

“Oh no, sir. My girlfriend happens to live around the corner. I just texted her that I’ll be with her in a minute.”

“Fine then. Good night.”

“Good night, sir, Sherlock.” With this she winked again, just for Sherlock, and turned on her high heels.

The two Holmes brothers looked at one another for a long moment. Then Mycroft asked, “Ready to leave?”

Sherlock nodded. “Do you have something to eat at home by any chance?” He hadn’t eaten anything at Angelo’s as he had been focused on the case then. But somehow having almost been killed caused even him to get hungry.

He hadn’t thought he would see Mycroft smile at him like this so soon, if ever, again. “For sure. But we can also get some ghastly takeaway if you like.”

“Oh, you’re spoiling me,” Sherlock teased him.

“That’s my plan, Sherlock, that’s my plan.”

*****

On their way home on the back seat of the black government car, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock said a word. Sherlock had leaned his head against the window, staring into the London night.

Mycroft, slumped in the seat and only held up by his seat belt, felt deeply exhausted, shaken to the core and still amazed that Sherlock was sitting next to him after their row and after having been saved by John Watson, whom he had sent home alone.

Of course Mycroft was grateful that John had saved him. The details were unknown to him and he wouldn’t ask Sherlock. It didn’t matter and actually it was not that hard to figure it out. The cab driver had forced Sherlock to accompany him to this twin-building and John had chosen the wrong one when he had followed them but had been in the room opposite of the one the killer and his alleged next victim had been occupying so he had shot through the glass. So much Mycroft had taken from the police report. Of course they had no idea who had shot the killer, idiots that they were.

He was damn glad John, whom Sherlock had already cured from his stupid limping, had been there while he had not had a clue that his brother was in severe danger. He had been wasting his time with stupid problems, caused by stupid people, and had totally missed it, and he knew it would eat at him forever. _He_ could have saved Sherlock. Of course, if his brother had just walked away, nobody would have had to save him in the first place. But that was Sherlock… Everything for the sake of the game…

So now John Watson had to be Sherlock's hero. And what he had done had really been rather impressive; nobody could deny that. And now Sherlock would be even less inclined to listen to what Mycroft had planned to tell him about John: that he was a loose canon, ten times worse than Sherlock himself. He had been involved with violence in the army, violence that had had nothing to do with war. John had this loyal, decent side. He was brave, albeit cheeky, and he was a man who believed in principles and had high standards. All was fine until he just… snapped. And who could tell what would make him? In the army it had happened on several occasions. And tonight he had killed someone without the hint of remorse. He was a dangerous man; he had just proven it perfectly.

And Sherlock was definitely not the easiest person to share a flat with. How tolerant would John be towards his nightly violin-playing, his preference for hard drugs and his sleeplessness, to his weird experiments and general oddness? John seemed to have taken a deep liking to him and admired him to no end. But how long until this fascination wore off and became stale and overpowered by being exasperated? Wasn’t their living with each other doomed from the first moment?

He could take John out. Now, tomorrow, next week. But Sherlock would know it and after tonight, he would react to such measures even less understandingly than Mycroft had feared before John’s feat. He wouldn’t accept this, he would possibly hate him for it, and he wouldn’t listen to Mycroft's warnings tonight and probably never unless John gave him a reason for it.

So he would have to stick to his plan of observing them as well as he could, if his damn job would let him, and wait for the right moment to act.

But now his bad feeling about John being in Sherlock's life had become even worse, if he had saved his brother or not. This man was bad news, and his clever little brother didn't see it and unfortunately, right now Mycroft couldn’t even blame him for this.

*****

When they arrived in Mycroft's house, they wordlessly disappeared into two different bathrooms. Mycroft had told the driver to get them some Chinese takeaway on their way and they had stopped so he could buy it, and Sherlock would reheat it when he felt less sweaty and done after a quick, first hot and then cold, shower. Mycroft would prefer very hot water even though Sherlock thought he could have done with a refreshing too. His brother looked awful. Something was eating at him. Well, John, obviously. He had certainly planned to condemn him so Sherlock would drop him but now John had done something that made this impossible. Sherlock wouldn’t have listened anyway. John was so loyal to him already and what he had done tonight… Sherlock would keep him. And Mycroft wouldn’t dare let him disappear now. As long as John behaved, and trying to flirt with Anthea had, as pointless as it had been, been a good idea to prove his sexuality. Of course Mycroft thought every man was interested in Sherlock, gay or straight, which was simply ridiculous and irrational. But damn, even Angelo had insinuated that John was his date. But if John dated women now, for everybody to see, and Mycroft would definitely watch very closely, even his stubborn, possessive brother had to accept that John was no rival for him. One could hope for it at least.

They met in the living room and ate their _Chow Mein _in more or less companionable silence. Mycroft had opened a bottle of wine and Sherlock sipped at the dark-red liquid in his exquisite glass. He wondered if Mycroft would have to get up early for work in just a few hours. Probably yes. If he continued to work so much and worry so much about everything, especially him, he wouldn’t have to bother about Sherlock being taken away from him anymore as he would die of a stroke or heart attack before he even got forty… But it made no sense to tell him that.

Mycroft quickly cleared the table and walked upstairs without a word, and Sherlock followed him. He didn’t like the dark mood his brother was in, and he didn’t quite understand it. Sure, he hadn’t been able to talk him out of moving in with John, and their last contact had been rather nasty, but Sherlock was here now, wasn’t he?

He hadn’t bothered with getting dressed again after his shower, and neither had Mycroft, so they both just slipped off their robes when they had entered Mycroft's bedroom.

Sherlock lay down, unsure of what his brother had in mind tonight. In his sullen mood, Mycroft was completely unreadable.

He obeyed when he was rolled over onto his front. So far his cock was soft; this situation hadn’t been exactly arousing. Right after the shot, he would have been ready to fuck, damn, he would have loved to fuck… Mycroft. He doubted it would ever happen and it would definitely not happen tonight. He was surprised that Mycroft was even in the mood for sex. But perhaps he wasn’t but wanted to do it anyway to keep him.

“You’re stupid, Mycroft,” slipped out of his mouth before he could help it.

His brother, who had just laid a hand onto his right globe, stilled. “Am I now?” His voice didn’t sound as if he was offended but rather curious.

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled against the arm his face was resting on. “I won’t leave you.” He shuddered when a kiss was pressed onto the back of his neck, then another one onto his shoulder, and he moaned when two wet fingers were pressed into him. He moved backwards against the pressure and moaned louder when he was penetrated in one smooth go by both long digits.

Mycroft didn’t say a word anymore, and soon he was sinking into him, and Sherlock was pulled onto his side and his brother was holding his hip in a firm grip while he was fucking him from behind with abandon, and if he was still exhausted, he definitely didn’t show it, and Sherlock moaned himself through their hard, relentless fucking until he soiled the sheets with his seed, and he could feel his brother erupt in him soon after, and Mycroft didn’t make a single noise when he came and didn’t tell him to clean up the mess. Instead he pulled him in and held him in an iron grip, and Sherlock did not leave his bed for the few hours until the morning light that came through the curtains woke him up. He had been sleeping tight, but one look into his brother’s face told him that Mycroft had not. He was worried but he didn’t voice his feelings, and when they parted without having spoken more than two sentences to each other, his brother looked like an old man.


End file.
